


Alternative Hypothesis

by domesticadventures



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s11e05 Thin Lizzie, M/M, Season/Series 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 13:59:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5166437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/domesticadventures/pseuds/domesticadventures
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wishes for it, in that moment. He finds it so tempting, the idea that he could get rid of all the pain and heartache and self loathing, that for a few seconds, he finds himself wishing he didn’t have a soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alternative Hypothesis

Dean keeps being rude just to see if he’ll feel guilty about it after.

Sam is so excited about the damn murders. It’s endearing, actually. But Dean doesn’t know how to say he’s jealous, so he makes fun of Sam instead. Tries to deter him from going.

They end up in the stupid tourist trap, anyway. The tackiness of the place itself doesn’t kill Sam’s enthusiasm, so Dean does it for him. Tears the place apart, rips the sound boxes out of the walls, pulls out the wiring rigged to make the lights flicker. He points to all of it like an accusation. He ruins the magic on purpose.

He feels like shit, and he relishes it right up until Sydney has them tied up in the basement.

She had made it look so easy, the act of capturing them. Of outmaneuvering two grown-ass men who have been doing this their entire lives.

She made it sound so easy, too. Every doubt and every ounce of pain gone just like that. Dean catches himself thinking: _It would make this life so much more bearable._ He glances at Sam. _I’ve seen it._

He wishes for it, in that moment. He finds it so tempting, the idea that he could get rid of all the pain and heartache and self loathing, that for a few seconds, he finds himself wishing he didn’t have a soul.

He’s been wondering, actually. If he still has a soul. Which is why he’s been testing himself: Does this still hurt? Does this still make me angry or sad or excited? Do I still care?

“I picked up my thumb like it was a mini hotdog,” Len says, later, while they’re wrapping things up.

“I’m not gonna lie, that’s worrisome,” Dean says, and tries not to think of himself. Tries not to think of how many years he’s spent picking up parts of himself off the ground. How many years he’s been losing pieces of himself, how each time it hurts less and less.

So he wonders, sometimes. He listens to Len describing the way he doesn’t care about anything, listens to him say: “I know for sure now that if I’m not stopped, there’ll be another kill.” It sounds so terrifying, when he says it. So familiar.

He thinks of what Sam had said, that people react differently after losing their souls. He wonders if it changes, depending on what the person remembers of who they were before. Based on whether or not they see this as an improvement. The thing is, for Dean, there are hundreds of kills, stretching back decades, now. And there’s always another on the horizon. Sometimes even closer. He wonders if he’s losing a little more, with each one. If maybe with each life he takes, he’s giving away a little of his own.

“I remember what it was like to do the right thing,” Len is saying, and Dean is trying to focus on his words. “So I’m going through the motions. For as long as I can.”

Dean forgets, sometimes. He keeps forgetting they’re trying to save people. He’s having a hard time remembering people might want to live through this. He’s terrified that he’s going to wake up one day and he’ll have forgotten completely.

He clings to that fear, forces himself to care. Makes himself feel bad about all of it. His unwillingness to come investigate. The way he had packed slowly, lingered in the bunker. The way he hadn’t taken this seriously. All the delays that cost people their lives. He clings to every aching corner of his soul and tells himself to stop wishing it were gone.

The thing is, on the drive home, he still wonders. His feelings about the hunt fade as the town shrinks in the rear view mirror and he thinks: He’s so used to feeling empty and awful. So used to doing what he’s doing now, living in the dying light, waiting for night to descend. He wonders, if he lost his soul somewhere along the way, would he even be able to tell the difference?

He wants to stew in it. He wants to sit in his room and toss and turn and wake up wondering if he really needed to sleep or if he’s just that good at lying to himself. He wants to agonize over it, because at least he knows that’s something only a person burdened with a soul would subject themself to.

Except when he goes to his room, Cas is there. He’s sitting on the bed watching Netflix on Dean’s laptop. He pauses it when Dean comes in. Takes off his headphones and smiles up at Dean and says, “Welcome back.”

For a second, Dean considers telling him to get out. But he isn’t interested in hurting himself that badly, no matter how much he feels he needs the reminder. So instead, he says, “Thanks, Cas.” He gestures to the laptop, the headphones. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

It earns him another smile before Cas puts the headphones back on. It feels good, seeing Cas smile. Someone without a soul wouldn’t feel pleased about that, right? He gets ready for bed, goes to brush his teeth and take a piss, and he wonders.

Cas doesn’t look up, this time, when Dean gets back to his room. Doesn’t watch Dean as he strips to his t-shirt and boxers, doesn’t react as Dean settles onto the bed.

Dean watches Cas watch Netflix. He watches the way he stares intensely at the screen. His bad posture as he hunches over the laptop. He looks at the side of Cas’ face and Cas is so engrossed that he doesn’t even notice Dean staring.

It’s such a human thing that it makes Dean careless. It makes him forget what Cas really is, like he does sometimes. Like he makes the mistake of doing when Cas is around for more than a few hours at a time. “Sometimes I wonder if the Mark took my soul with it,” Dean says, quietly. He says it out loud mostly just to see how it feels, admitting it. But Cas hears him, even through the headphones and his intense focus.

Cas pauses the show. He takes off the headphones and sets the laptop on the bed and looks at Dean. And then he _looks_ at him. Dean shifts under the scrutiny.

“No,” Cas says, with certainty, with finality. “It’s still there. If it weren’t, I would know.”

“Oh,” Dean says. He feels naked, all of a sudden. But he can’t get under the covers, not now, not with Cas still staring at him. He looks down at his bare knees instead. He adds, “If that changes, you -- you gotta let me know.”

“Of course, Dean,” Cas says, solemnly. This, apparently, is a promise Cas is willing to make.

Dean doesn’t know what to say, after that. He can feel Cas’ eyes on him, still. He keeps waiting for Cas to go back to Netflix. Or at least to ask, like most people would, if he minds. Seeking out permission, asking if Dean is done, if they’re done with this conversation.

Cas isn’t a person, though. No matter how often Dean forgets. So he keeps staring, waiting for something from Dean. For whatever he’s going to give, whether that’s more of himself or just a dismissal.

“I keep holding onto how it felt,” Dean admits, eventually. “Those few seconds I thought you were dead. I keep replaying them in my mind just to see if it still hurts.”

Cas hesitates before he asks, “Does it?” Dean can feel Cas’ inhuman focus, but there’s something else there, too. He looks up, into Cas’ face, and he sees human pain and human curiosity.

Dean laughs, forcing it out of his throat like he’s pulling a trigger. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it fucking hurts.” He has to look away. Drag a hand over his face as his breath stutters on the exhale. “God,” he says. “What if that changes.”

Cas says, “I’ll tell you. I promise.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “but what about when you’re not here. You can’t stick around forever.” It’s not a question. He doesn’t mean it to sound as imploring as it does.

Cas looks at him carefully. He closes the laptop and sets it next to him on the bed. He reaches over and takes Dean’s hand in his own, lacing their fingers together, and then reaches out with the other and curls it around the back of Dean’s neck. He pulls Dean close, kisses his forehead.

“Yes,” Cas says, into Dean’s hair. “I can.”


End file.
